Thursday, September 24, 2015

There are certain, definable elements to ascertain a successful life, and one is whether or not a person can be inebriated enough whilst the sun is still afloat in the Western sky to throw a $3000 bikey with wild abandon; in the process bending a disc rotor and a wheel beyond repair. One other element is challenging one's sexuality by choice, or dare, and in the process realizing that men really are disgusting creatures with death-breath and hirsute-hell issues: Team Penistitties/8Lumens won hands down.

Momma said cock you out, a wise man once never said, and so, the pre-dark shenanigans set forth upon Pub n' Pedal with a vengeance unlike any 4 hour hairstyle session with The Donald. Bikes were eventually ridden, only after the Danimal's Boxwine acoutremount was attached with a scientific furvor to the rack on El Blanco's Boner Stem racer:

And, this aforementioned hinderance would be the Captain Cuntwat's ultimate tool for a hastened demise: problematic at best, tragic at worst, short-bus reject at worster; 3rd person narrative is always the litmus test for all things chary and mental...

Tuesday, September 1, 2015

In the library of ironies that is our modern world, one in particular strikes a hyper-acute angle near my heart: that, in order to ride one's mt. bike off-road - which is by definition the fucking over-arching point of said device - 99% of the time a car must be the primary transport to arrive at the trailhead. Now, I hear the litany of detractors lining up in their angry queue and of course, if you live within a few miles of some tasty single-track, you can leave the internal combustion coffin at home, and if you are a pro, nutfucking maniac like Yams, you can ride *100 miles to the dirt, spin off 100 more miles and then pet some goats and eat *89 lbs. of steamed carrots, THEN ride *34 miles home and punch David HasselShoff in his swollen giner; but I digress...
I am a product of all the things I hate about the suburbs, and I will, for the sake of stabbing myself in the neck, not make a list here for all to see, however, let it be said that packing my bike/gear into a car and driving 10-20 miles or so 2-3 times a week is relatively low in that index of indiscretions. As a life-long bike commuter I can justify, to some extent, putting on the miles to and from the trails - especially if those miles are to Colorado or Arkansas. There is also the blatant factor of time and its consumption: as a 'married with child' member of society, there are only so many hours available with which to escape to the Church in the Woods, the cathartic release of endorphins and blood that is the very essence of mt. biking. So, therein lies the rotted root of our current dilemma and contentious topic on the table of tete a' tete today: duration, and its ugly antecedent, hunger. Let me be morer clearerer: road food/coffee is a painful, but necessary evil in the race that is the travel time to the trails.
And, in true Boner Ghost fashion, we have, after myriad pointless words and phrases, come to the crux of this dastardly diatribe: Quick and Tasty Corporation , aka Quik Trip. As a dyed-in-the-cotton Socialist, I realize fully that Capitalism at its core is organized crime and that our special blend of corruption here in the US is especially vulgar, but if I was El Presidente I would immediately upon taking office mandate that all other variances/miscellany of non-QT stores be shuttered and demolished. The Red, White and Black of QT would replace all Patriotic bullshit-propaganda so as to insure that all 50 states, not just the Central region, would be graced by the glory that is the fastest of all fast-food/gas combinations. All portions and strata of our great nation would have the Devil-given opportunity to imbibe decent coffee and even less decent cylindrical pockets of mystery meat and infrared-heated pizza slices, all the while being able to satiate every one of their 11 children with *56 flavors of slushies. Of course, who can forget the rack of breakfast burritos and sandwiches, that, in a pinch, rival any hipster, slow-food, locavore haute cuisine. Now, let it be said that, if given my druthers, I would easily be swayed into eating "real food" and getting a double espresso at The Filling Station, Second Best Coffee or Oddly Correct, but let us be reminded of the paradox that is hours on the bike versus proper nutrition - the latter always takes the loss. Today's QT experience on the way out to the Blue River trails was predictable as usual: fast, friendly service, passable libations/comestibles and cheap diesel for my Global Warming machine; par for the course that is the race towards entitled entropy and fat pants for all -glory be to the Q and T.